


Competitive Streak

by canardroublard



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Fluff, Gaby is a very very lucky woman, Multi, Smut, just a smutty fluffy little oneshot to keep me going, while i stare into the 20k abyss of my other fics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 16:20:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12891813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canardroublard/pseuds/canardroublard
Summary: In retrospect, she should've known that Illya and Napoleon would be so competitive about everything. But Gaby's not complaining about it. She's too busy enjoying herself.





	Competitive Streak

Gaby shivered as a bead of sweat slipped free from the crook of her bent knee, rambling a cool trail down the muscle of her calf before succumbing to gravity and dropping, unnoticed, onto the bed sheets. She released a breathless noise, keening, moaning, when the man between her legs pressed a gentle kiss to her still fluttering sex. Then his tongue teased her clit and Gaby’s body jolted, caught between too-much-too-soon and more-more- _more_. She tugged at the soft hair which had somehow ended up wound between her fingers, provoking a pleased hum which buzzed against her, only heightening the delicious, torturous sensations. 

 

Then Illya swooped down for a kiss, languid on his part, clumsy and distracted on hers. She ran her greedy tongue along his lips, seeking the lingering taste of herself, but had to break away to curse when Napoleon did that _thing_ , the one he'd recently discovered and now loved to exploit at the most inopportune moments. 

 

“Na— Napol— oh, fuck, come _on_ ,” she whined. The bastard just grinned, she could feel it against her centre, and did that _thing_ again.  Growling, she yanked at his hair until he pulled away, still teasing her entrance with one clever finger, dropping a soft kiss to her mound before resting his chin there and gazing up at her, bright eyes blown dark with desire. He looked far too pleased with himself.

 

“It's not a competition, Cowboy,” Illya chuckled, idly brushing some hair off her sweat-damp forehead. Gaby pressed into his touch with a kittenish whimper, closing her eyes against the limpid light which seeped through the linen curtains and basking in this brief reprieve.

 

“Whatever you say, Peril.” Then Napoleon added a second finger, making her moan again. “Hey, Gabs,” he said in a theatric whisper. When she, rendered momentarily wordless by his latest trick, didn't respond, he wheedled her name again. “Gabs. Gaby.”

 

“What _now_?” she demanded. Her hips twitched searchingly, but, instead of indulging her desperation, his fingers danced away with tantalizing deftness. Gaby swore and whined, but he waited until she turned a murderous glare on him, until he had her full attention, before he finished his thought.

 

“Who's winning?”

 

Gaby didn't need to look at Illya to know that he was rolling his eyes. His other reaction was to bow down and nose along the curve of her breast, lapping at her flushed skin with utter reverence. Before she could say anything, Napoleon started moving again, working her open as he slid back down and pressed the flat of his tongue to her clit. The noise that Gaby made might've been a yelp.

 

“Me,” she panted, doing her best to smirk down at Napoleon, past Illya's tufted, messy hair, feeling a burst of pride at her own wit. “I'm winning.”

 

Neither man seemed too upset about not being declared the winner. Instead they smiled into her skin, then spent the rest of the morning proving her right. 

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Eternal thanks to bioticsandheadshots, who puts up with my nonsense.


End file.
